


Palingenesis

by Huinari



Series: Pandora [5]
Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Crack Relationships, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Don't copy to another site, F/F, No Sailor Soldiers AU, Petrichor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:55:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huinari/pseuds/Huinari
Summary: I'm Nobody! Who are you?Are you - Nobody - too?Then there's a pair of us!-Emily Dickenson-Fujiwara Nagi recognized in Tomoe Hotaru a fellow drifter. Ten years later, Chrome Dokuro is a ghost from the past.
Relationships: Chrome Dokuro & Rokudou Mukuro, Chrome Dokuro/Tomoe Hotaru
Series: Pandora [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1321157
Comments: 31
Kudos: 57





	1. Fujiwara Nagi

**Author's Note:**

> For the anniversary of Petrichor. Thank you to all the readers this past year!
> 
> Unlike Saturnine this one is a multi-chap fic.
> 
> Playlist: Guerilla, Oh My Girl; Destiny, MAMAMOO; Hold me tight or don't, FOB; July 7th, Dreamcatcher; Carry you, Ruelle

Fujiwara Nagi had parents who were well-off. She attended a prestigious academy – an escalator school where students were renowned for their talent, in diverse fields. She had inherited her mother’s looks, that of a woman whose beauty had been enough to earn her fame and marriage to a man who could provide her a secure future should age exert its inevitable effects on her. She was healthy.

Arguably, Fujiwara Nagi had everything necessary to be happy.

Would it have been ironic, then, to say that she wasn’t?

* * *

Mugen Academy loved talent. Its students, both current and graduated, would be found familiar by most of Japan, as either superstars, top athletes, or brilliant minds in academics.

Of course, that didn’t mean every student who attended or graduated from Mugen was famous. The school’s tuition was reflective of its name value, making the academy famous not just for their graduates, but also the prestige attached to it.

In a school where talent was expected, where fame was close, it was almost inevitable that the young future superstars, used to being geniuses, talented – the big fish in small ponds – clashed fiercely, eager to rip down competition and rise on the corpses of the fallen.

Nagi didn’t want to stand out, and so she hid, staying quiet. It was easy – she had practice at home, to shy away from the disapproving gaze of her mother, the disinterested one of her stepfather. The yearning for affection, of some kind – any kind – had been hurt too many times, and by the time she entered middle school, she knew not to search for it.

(Later, after the death of Fujiwara Nagi, Chrome would think back and realize that even then, even before salvation came to her, she had a talent for illusions, for influencing reality and tricking the sense of those around her with her own desires)

In the first year of middle school, for the first time since entering Mugen, Nagi was placed in the same class as Tomoe Hotaru.

* * *

Mugen organized itself in ranks and archetypes. The academically talented ones separated according to subjects of excellence, and leaders, after establishing themselves in a war without blades (but just as cruel and vicious) led their own. The same applied to the sports. To those talented in the arts, they were more – liberal – in the sense that their leader was more a representative of their faction, but not their head.

Nagi didn’t truly belong to any of them and so she drifted, unseen, unnoticed, a ghost among the living. And that was fine with her, she said to herself, it was fine.

She wasn’t the only ‘drifter’, per say. They were rare, because to stick out like a nail was just asking to be hammered into place, painfully, and most students sought to capitalize their talents to belong to a group, but Nagi had never been very social, never knew just how to belong, and the academy’s students were not kind or inclusive to those who could not fight to make her own space.

And Nagi, whose survival methods were to stay quiet and hidden, unseen even when present, could not carve a place in Mugen.

But sometimes, there was a drifter. Very rarely were those drifters ‘lone wolves’, those who had talent but didn’t want to be social. Most of the time they were like Nagi – unsocial, unable to belong, and lacking a talent to stand out in a school of stars.

The only other ‘drifter’ in her class this year was Tomoe Hotaru. Her talent wasn’t in athletics – she was frail, sickly, and had permission to sit out during physical education. As far as Nagi knew, she didn’t have an artistic talent. In the tests that she took, Tomoe Hotaru placed around the top half in the rankings, but not high enough to be of note.

From her observations, Nagi knew this was likely because Tomoe Hotaru was often sick and missed lessons. Taking her illness into account, if there was ever a case where she would have to advocate on her behalf, Nagi would have said that Tomoe Hotaru was actually quite brilliant.

But there was never such a situation forcing Nagi to speak out, and no one asked or noticed the same things she did.

The reason, the other students deduced instead, from what they heard from others who had been in her class before, of what they knew from previous years, the reason that Tomoe Hotaru was so weird yet still in Mugen was because of her father. Her father, the creepy Professor Tomoe who taught in Mugen’s university and also owned a significant portion of its shares and was on the board.

And of course, it was connections, they sneered unkindly, of course that was the only reason why such a useless sick girl could be here, among them. The only notable things about her were the negatives, and they were gleeful in their callousness, in using what they justified as her faults to be her only defining feature, her identity.

Tomoe Hotaru did not pay them any attention. In her stoic face Nagi read the emotions that greeted her in the mirror every day – the lack of hope, the resignation to it all, the dull feeling of going through the motions of life as time passed on.

But Nagi didn’t dare reach out, and she never would have, were it not for one cat.

* * *

Animals were easier than humans. They didn’t talk about you behind your back or judge you. It was simple with them, and their affection genuine.

Nagi wished she could have a pet at home, but she knew it wouldn’t happen. The only furs her mother approved of were her coats, and she would never agree to let Nagi bring in a stray cat.

When she first saw the cat in the academy’s gardens, Nagi had been smitten. It was a scrawny cat, the short hairs of its black coat a little dusty but still beautiful, and wide green eyes like emeralds that glinted at her – but with life, unlike the cold, glittering gems her mother liked.

Without much to spend her allowance on, she used some of what she had saved up to buy cat food, or toys. Every lunch was spent in the gardens, coaxing the cat to eat in an attempt to keep its ribs from being visible through thin flesh and scraggly fur.

It was a fragile thing, Nagi knew, this thing she had with the cat. If security or the gardeners caught the cat, there would be no doubt that it would be removed from the carefully crafted gardens. Mugen had an image to uphold, and stray cats did not fit the image. It was possible she might get in trouble, if she was caught, too, and maybe her mother would be called in. Her stomach clenched in dread at the thought.

One day, Nagi would come to the school gardens and wait, and never be rewarded with a sight of the cat.

That uncertainty was what made it more precious, and Nagi relished every moment of happiness she did receive. She didn’t dare touch the cat – not out of fear of diseases, as her mother may have, but because she was terrified that she would scare the cat away.

But in a way, the cat was hers, in a possession that had no visible bonds, no written deeds.

Nagi held onto this fragile uncertain thing desperately, even as she trembled.

“Fujiwara-san?”

Even after three years of the last name, it was still unfamiliar to her. There was another Fujiwara in the class, one she had been in the same class with for four years, so there was also that. But it was hers, in the way that a crumbling cliff she stood on was – because as unsteady as it was, it was the only thing she had and to not have it meant she had nothing.

Nagi needed a second to realize that it was her being called, and she froze, unsure on what to do.

Slowly, she turned, and caught sight of Tomoe Hotaru. It was late spring, nearly summer, and she was still in the long sleeves of the winter uniform and dark tights, every bit of skin under her neck covered.

Her choice in wardrobe, Nagi knew, was what others whispered was ‘freaky’ about her. The gossip was that she had scars from an accident.

“Tomoe-san,” she said stiffly. Behind her, the cat meowed.

Tomoe’s eyes drifted to the cat, who stared back at her warily, assessing whether the newcomer was a threat or not.

In one hand she held a lunchbox, and in the other a book of poetry.

“I was looking for a quiet place to eat,” she said. As an explanation, Nagi realized belatedly. “I’m sorry to bother you.”

Maybe it was the cat. Maybe it was the knowledge that Tomoe Hotaru was a fellow drifter. Maybe it was the look on her face, the stoic mask painted with loneliness and resignation.

“Would you,” her voice _squeaked_ , and blood rushed to her cheeks in embarrassment. Nagi pushed through, because she couldn’t stop now, even though she would have rather preferred to crawl into a hole and die. “Like to stay?”

Stiffly, hesitantly, just as unsure as Nagi felt and likely looked, Tomoe nodded, and thus began their shared lunchtimes.

* * *

One thing she learned during lunch – Tomoe Hotaru wasn’t much of an eater.

Neither, to be honest, was Nagi. She had a habit of eating quietly, quickly, carefully – because mealtimes at home, when shared, were tense things where she always waited to have at least one complaint directed towards her. She ate too loudly. Too hurriedly. She spilled things, dropped cutlery, and so on. The anxiety she felt during mealtimes made it difficult for her to eat without feeling like there were hands around her throat, and often times she suffered from indigestion. Nagi could barely eat with them, lest she choke and draw more of their ire.

When Nagi didn’t eat with her parents, she ate alone, and that was hardly better. She had once heard that food was savored not by taste buds, but by memories.

She didn’t really have any foods that gave her pleasant memories, so maybe that was why she wasn’t a fan of eating.

For a week Nagi observed, a pack of _mugi_ chocolate hidden in her bag. She had bought it the day the other girl joined, on her way home, hoping to be able to strike some conversation with her after offering it – only to hesitate and falter the next day, because she didn’t know if Tomoe would like _mugi_ chocolate, or even chocolate at all. Tomoe didn’t seem to have any particular favorites in food. She didn’t really eat, per say. She brought a packed lunch, took a few bites, and then set it aside to flip through her books.

It wasn’t food preference, but Nagi did learn that the other girl seemed to like reading poetry. Tennyson. Virgil. Yeats. She had to look their names up and was impressed that she could read the poems in the original language.

She wished she had the knowledge to talk with Tomoe about the books she liked to read. She wished the had the courage to talk with Tomoe about the things she liked to do, because that was what friends did, and, well –

Nagi didn’t know if they were friends.

She never had any friends before, for one. The ones in media – in books, in television – they ate together, and spoke together.

Were they friends?

They ate together, but it was more in the sense of shared space, rather than actually eating together.

Did she want to be friends?

The answer, Nagi found, was ‘yes’.

And that desire pushed her.

The next week, Nagi took a deep breath.

“Tomoe-san,” she said, and this time her voice didn’t squeak. Small victories.

The other girl looked up from her book – Emily Dickenson – and she looked a little startled at the change in their usual pattern.

Nagi held the chocolates towards her and hoped she didn’t look as awkward as she felt. The heat was rushing to her cheeks, and surely, she was blushing beyond her usual flush right now. “Would you like some?”

Tomoe Hotaru’s violet eyes flickered down from the bag, to Nagi’s undoubtedly tomato-red face, and then repeated the process one more time like she couldn’t believe what Nagi had just said.

An eternity in the guise of a moment slipped by before Nagi received a response, and in that false moment she died several times over in embarrassment.

“Thank you,” said Tomoe, who took a few chocolates from the bag tentatively, as if she expected the bag to bite her hand off.

She didn’t take more, and that drained all of Nagi’s courage for the day – possibly for the whole year. Inside, she deflated at her failure. The sweets tasted bitter in her mouth, despite them being covered in milk chocolate.

The next day, Nagi was surprised when Tomoe Hotaru took out a box from under her book – still Emily Dickenson, which was odd, because it wasn’t a very thick book and given the other girl’s usual reading speed, she should have finished it by now – and opened it. Inside were eight delicately crafted _wagashi_ , the light pink color of cherry blossoms and almost too pretty to eat.

Tomoe held the box out towards Nagi. “They’re good,” she said, as if she was worried Nagi might refuse them.

Almost like a mirror of yesterday, Nagi gently – carefully, cautiously – reached out and took one. The sweet made in the shape of a blossom was almost too pretty to eat, and a part of Nagi wanted to take it home with her, treasure it as a sign of something that filled her inside with warmth.

That, though, might have been very creepy and scared Tomoe Hotaru off, so Nagi quietly thanked her and nibbled on the _wagashi_. It was sweet, in a way different from the chocolate, and delicious.

“You can have more,” she murmured when Nagi didn’t move to take another one. “If you want to,” she said. “I brought them to share and I wasn’t sure if you’d like them, so . . .”

Tomoe trailed off, and she was a mirror of who Nagi had been yesterday. Except unlike Nagi, Tomoe Hotaru was lovely.

“They’re good,” Nagi reassured her, and picked up another one. “It’s just . . . they’re really cute.”

Tomoe Hotaru smiled, and there was a lot of relief in it. “They are,” she agreed, and picked one up herself.

And it was odd, how eating traditional confectionary made Nagi feel a little like cotton candy – soft and light and sweet, and colorful.

Odd, but – pleasant. Nice.

* * *

Sometimes, Tomoe Hotaru could not make it to the lunchtimes. It was because she was sick, and frail, and it made Nagi glad, in a way, that she usually stayed until after lunch before asking to be excused.

She was also worried, especially when she was pale – paler than usual, in a sickly manner – and perspiration made strands of dark hair stick to her bloodless cheeks, but Tomoe insisted she was fine.

They exchanged contacts and Nagi spent twenty minutes to compose a message, another twenty to stare at it before she finally sent the first message to a friend.

“My father monitors my messages,” Tomoe had said, when they exchanged contact information. “If there’s anything private, don’t write them.”

It wasn’t exactly an encouragement, for Nagi to contact her, but the fact that she gave Nagi her number meant that there was a way for them to communicate, a choice, beyond just their lunch time meetups.

In one cage, Nagi stared across her bars into the bars of another cage holding someone with bound wings. She couldn’t free Tomoe Hotaru, and Tomoe Hotaru couldn’t free Fujuwara Nagi, but –

But company made it so they weren’t so terribly alone. It made it bearable.

* * *

The end of lunchtimes together came with the disappearance of the cat.

* * *

Nagi had never been the most athletic of people. She had good balances, and instincts, but she was used to trying to not stand out. She didn’t participate in clubs. She didn’t have much of an appetite.

Fujiwara Nagi was not the most physically impressive person. She was no hero who could snatch someone out of the path of a car, keeping them and herself safe from danger.

The cat – her cat, she wanted to say, but the cat was still wary of her, still a stray, still not hers – was in the path of the car and wasn’t moving, and there wasn’t time.

Nagi was not a hero. She didn’t have much to her.

She had enough in her to shove the cat out of the way of the car, but not enough to get herself to safety.

The car struck her, the pain greater than any physical force she had ever experienced in her life, and Nagi’s vision blurred before going out entirely.

* * *

Maybe it was limbo she was stuck in, Nagi thought through a haze. Maybe she was stuck, because while she hadn’t done terrible things, she wasn’t a good person. She couldn’t make it to heaven, but neither was she someone who would fall to hell, and so, like she always had been, she was stuck in an awkward middle, not remarkable, not memorable.

Suspended in that state, Nagi heard her mother and stepfather’s voices through the steady beep of machines, obnoxiously grating on her ears. There wasn’t a trace of worry in their words, no concern or mourning.

Annoyance, at her being a waste of their time. Just like she had been for them, all her life.

Was it surprising, that neither of her parents were happy?

Well, no, but perhaps ‘happy’ wasn’t the right word for it, what it should have been. ‘Worried’. ‘Concerned’.

She didn’t know what the right word would be. All of them? None of them? The only thing she had for reference was the usual discontent, and that was present in plenty. Like she had been in her life, even as she was dying, Nagi was an inconvenience.

“Test me,” pleaded a voice, as Nagi began slipping away from the brief window of consciousness. Or maybe she wasn’t and hadn’t been conscious – maybe this was all a dream. “Test me – I might be a match, it might work.”

“This isn’t just a simple blood transfusion,” replied an unfamiliar voice, a man’s. “It’s far more complicated than giving blood, or even a kidney, what’s required is-”

“I know and I’m saying it’s fine!” snapped the first voice, a voice that was familiar except out of character. Nagi knew it had to be a dream then, because Tomoe Hotaru never raised her voice. “Just test me!”

It was a nice dream, Nagi thought, as she slipped out. Unexpected, but nice.

And then she slipped into an entirely different place.

“Oya?”

* * *

The day Fujiwara Nagi died, Chrome Dokuro was born, vessel to a trapped soul who remembered the wheel of reincarnation and the six realms of hell.

(And Tomoe Hotaru wept.)


	2. Chrome Dokuro

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I forgot to mention in the AN last chapter because I wrote it on Tumblr and the AO3 tag, but this is a no sailor soldiers AU. As in Tomoe Hotaru =/= Sailor Saturn. No aliens so she doesn’t go through the whole Death Busters thing, but she’s miserable for longer so (this person).
> 
> Also, not saying this was based off the Handmaiden, but I was totally influenced by the Handmaiden with this fic.
> 
> Happy Valentine’s Day!
> 
> Playlist: all the songs from Dark Side of the Moon, by Moonbyul.

Sometimes Chrome thought about Nagi, and Nagi's life. Chrome was much happier than she ever had been as Nagi, and would, even when given a chance, choose being Chrome over being Nagi.

She had learned to choose happiness, to make a leap into the unknown. To manifest her resolve, to carve out her own place.

To love herself – a lesson she had never learned, never been taught until she first learned what it was like to die once.

But sometimes she did reminisce and wonder if she had dreamed that last day as Nagi, imagining a desperate plea, a familiar voice in unfamiliar emotion, saying words that seemed so fantastic, so unreal.

Sometimes Chrome wondered about Tomoe Hotaru, from another lifetime. About the girl who could smile but didn't really have a reason to but was beautiful when she did, the girl that liked reading poetry books, but never recited them, the girl that didn't really eat a lot, was pale and quiet and a drifter.

Not often, but sometimes.

(The only part of Nagi that clung to Chrome and did not move on with the ghost of a girl who died saving a cat.)

* * *

When a non-allied Family unleashed what appeared at first to be deformed box weapons that were soon revealed by DNA testing to be partly human, the Vongola realized there was a problem. That problem, even after said Family had been stopped stayed, because similar strains of these distorted life forms were appearing elsewhere, which meant the source was somewhere else.

Verde, called in to consult, confirmed that they were all likely the work of the same person.

"You can see where whoever was behind this left his signature," he said, prodding at the third page's second table, filled with what looked more like code than a language that was comprehendible. "Genetic testing's not my usual thing, but he's experimenting with telomeres and mitochondria. My guess is that he's after immortality and enhanced strength."

Chrome didn't have to look around with her one eye to see the reactions of her boss, or the other guardians present.

Behind his stained glasses the scientist rolled his eyes, his usual disdain for others, especially those he did not view as 'equals', bleeding through that one simple action. "Except he's failed, obviously."

"And sold his failures to fund his research," said Gokudera grimly. Yamamoto Takeshi had been injured, and while it wasn't serious and would heal – a broken arm, the doctors just wanted to make sure that the bones were set properly before any treatment with Sun Flames – it didn't change the fact that these 'failures' had still nearly caught a Vongola Guardian off-guard.

Verde considered something, and then gave them a name. "He's probably most likely the one behind these. Has a bit of a record. Don't know where he is now, but wouldn't surprise me if he was working with a Family."

The scientist Verde suspected wasn't actually off the grid – just hidden in plain sight, very much in the 'legal' world.

Sawada Tsunayoshi wanted change, and change meant that they acted as vigilantes with proof, not suspicion or hearsay.

A mission to infiltrate and gather information was first.

Gokudera Hayato wasn't keen on leaving the boss's side. Lambo was young – too young. Hibari Kyoya did not follow orders, or make use of the concept of subtlety unless he wished to. Yamamoto Takeshi would stand out. Sasagawa Ryohei was not a good fit. Rokudo Mukuro was needed elsewhere simultaneously.

Chrome Dokuro wasn't the only one available, but she was the perfect fit for this mission, to infiltrate Mugen Academy.

The name was familiar, and the files for debriefing confirmed that her memories were not distorted.

Her eyes caught on specific characters, black letters on white paper neatly outlining a profile of the target. Tomoe Souichi. Wife deceased, one daughter. Tomoe Hotaru.

Everything was part of the cycle, Mukuro liked to say. What started had an end, what died was reborn, and everyone was connected, someway, somehow.

Ten years, give or take a few, and old bonds that had died with Fujiwara Nagi were tugging Chrome Dokuro to a sinister plot, and the familiar mystery that was Tomoe Hotaru.

* * *

It wasn't really a question of 'was Tomoe Souichi a man capable of something like this', because the answer was almost unanimously 'yes'. Yes, he was the kind of man that would experiment on lives. He wasn't a social person, but his line of research, his papers, everything that he did or didn't pointed to the kind of man that made Mukuro seethe, and while he was no longer in her head, she knew his reactions, what he might feel about someone like Tomoe Souichi.

What Chrome was here for was to find the specifics of just what Tomoe Souichi had done, and who was connected. Track down every detail.

That way, the Vongola could help those that were still within reach, still could receive help, and keep his research out of the hands of people who might share his less than scrupulous thoughts and continue on the bloody cycle of tragedy committed in the name of 'progress'.

For two weeks, Chrome, posing as janitorial staff, drifted around the school, a layer of mist hiding her like a cloak of invisibility. She learned the patterns of the staff of the faculty of science, looked over their shoulders for passwords and committed them to memory for later use. She listened in on conversations, words that should have been kept silent and unspoken but were said casually out of a mistaken belief that no one was listening.

Inevitably, her creeping brought her into the orbit of one Tomoe Hotaru.

Even if Chrome hadn't received her picture in the dossier detailing Tomoe Souichi's background information, Chrome would have recognized her. Tomoe wore her dark hair the way she always had, a neat chin-length cut, and her eyes were as somber as Chrome remembered. She still dressed to cover as much of herself as she could with dark clothing, and Chrome couldn't help but think of vampires, pale from lack of exposure to sunlight, in gothic fashion.

Tomoe was so pale that the lab coat she wore on top of her dark clothing was only a touch paler than she was. It frustrated Chrome, that the others in the lab just looked up briefly when Tomoe Hotaru entered and then looked down back at their work. Did they not see how tired she looked, how frail she was? If that was the norm, then why did no one insist she get rest?

Why did no one care?

* * *

It was that kind of underlying thought that had been festering in Chrome. Three days after she first saw Tomoe Hotaru as Chrome Dokuro, on a night shift when the 'janitor' was taking out the trash and there was only one other lab assistant with them, Tomoe shuddered and swayed where she stood.

Chrome was there before she knew it, reaching out to hold Tomoe so that she wouldn't fall. "Are you alright?"

Then, realizing that it might draw attention, she quickly put a layer of illusions over the other person – Tanaka, if she was remembering correctly – and put her focus back onto Tomoe Hotaru.

Tomoe Hotaru, who was looking at her with wide eyes.

That wasn't a good sign. Chrome checked her illusions – and no, they held, they should be holding, so why was she looking at Chrome like that, why was she grabbing Chrome's bicep with a surprisingly strong grip like someone wearing the face of a middle-aged woman was important to her-

"Fujiwara-san?" she hissed.

Something inside Chrome lurched and threatened to spill.

"Outside," Chrome managed to say instead of letting spill whatever it was roiling inside of her like a volcano on the verge of eruption. "Please."

* * *

Sometimes people were just naturally talented at certain fields. Take the Guardian of Rain, for one. He was a natural-born hitman, said the world's strongest hitman himself. Unflinching even when thrown into a real-life situation fresh out of training against the Varia's Sword Emperor himself.

In that vein, there were other areas in the world that other people were naturally born with a not-inconsiderable talent in. Nagi had that, which was why Mukuro had been able to find her and offer the kind of contract he did, even when locked up in the prison of the Vindice. Fran had that, which was why even as a young child who had lost his memories of the future that never would be, he was still brought to the representative battles and given a battle watch to fight on behalf of Verde.

The moment the automatic doors slid shut behind them, Tomoe Hotaru pulled Chrome until they had turned a corner in the hallway. It was an area Chrome had noticed during her earlier assessments of the lab, a place without cameras.

Chrome followed her there, because while she could break free of her grip, she needed to get her thoughts back in order, and also, she needed to hear what Tomoe Hotaru had to say.

"I don't know who you are," hissed Tomoe Hotaru the moment they were out of camera range. Technically a useless precaution – Chrome had already set up illusions to hide them from even the mechanical senses – but Chrome did not argue. "Or what you want, but you need to leave, now."

It looked like, Chrome realized, after Tomoe Hotaru had recognized the person she had been beyond the illusions, even after all these years, Tomoe Hotaru also had a not-inconsiderable talent in illusions as well. Even without any formal training – and she didn't have it, Chrome knew because that kind of knowledge showed – she had been able to pierce through the false reality Chrome wove as befitting the Vongola's Mist.

Natural talent.

In the short distance between the lab and this small nook for them to speak from the camera, Tomoe Hotaru had come to the conclusion that if she could make herself seem like a janitor, then she could make herself seem like someone else. Or, maybe it was that she took that moment to realize that the dead did not come back to life. That regardless of what she had seen, the woman with a striking resemblance to an acquaintance from ten years past was not her.

The mark of a good illusionist was to make it so that truth became lies, and lies became truths, until nothing was what it seemed and reality uncertain, unknown.

She should have done or said something befitting the Mist – a position that was, despite the belief of many outside the Vongola's inner circle, not just Rokudo Mukuro's but also hers. Should have stayed on mission, should have lied, led Tomoe Hotaru astray, made it easier for future interactions. It would have been easy, with her shaking pupils, her rage – easy to trick her through the gaps left by her emotional reaction.

What came out of Chrome's opened mouth was far from that. "Did you ask to be tested for if your organs were a fit?"

A question she had wondered for ten years, questioning if she had been so desperate for someone, _anyone_ to want her to continue living after being quietly heartbroken over her own mother rejecting her that she imagined the whole thing, and unable to continue festering in her mind further it interrupted a mission, jeopardized it.

Tomoe Hotaru was already pale, had always been pale to the point where she sometimes seemed translucent, and not just because of the juxtaposition against her dark clothes.

But with that question, she turned absolutely bloodless as if she had seen a ghost, and had she not been next to a wall, or Chrome not there to hurriedly catch and support her weight, she would have fallen flat on her face as she fainted.

* * *

"I thought you died," was the first thing Tomoe Hotaru said when she came to. She hadn't rand her eyes had landed on Chrome, fiercely tracing over her features as if she was scanning its image into her brain to compare her to her memories of Fujiwara Nagi.

It had been one thing, ten years ago when everyone had been brought to a future different from this one, for Kyoko and Haru to be told. Kyoko was already connected by her brother, and Haru was loyal, unshakingly. They were a part of the Vongola without having known it, and while it made Chrome's boss absolutely heartbroken that they were dragged in, Chrome's friends were far stronger than the boys gave them credit for.

Tomoe Hotaru did not fall under those same definitions. She was technically the opposite of such – after all, she was the daughter of the very man she was investigating right now, for the purpose of putting a stop to his activities.

And then what would happen to Tomoe Hotaru, after the Vongola finished with Tomoe Souichi?

Chrome made an executive decision as the Guardian of the Mist.

"I thought you were _dead_ ," Tomoe Hotaru whispered harshly, and it might have been an accusation, but it wasn't.

It also wasn't a lie.

"Fujiwara Nagi did die that day."

Tomoe Hotaru was a very intelligent person, whose life had made her perceptive as a matter of survival. It was the kind of sense honed by not fitting in, by quietly surviving, and Chrome recognized it, for all that she hadn't truly needed it as much as she used to as Nagi, not in the social aspect of her life recently.

She understood, without needing an explanation or context. Maybe she had also imagined what it would be like, to shed the person that was Tomoe Hotaru like a butterfly shedding its cocoon, to _metamorphosize_ and become anew, or at least just change everything that defined Tomoe Hotaru and be accepted and given affection in a way Tomoe Hotaru had not.

Not die, but just – live, just not like this. An escape from everything that clung to her, that she could not escape from.

"What should I call you?" she asked softly, no judgement in any line of her face. Just like that day when she stumbled upon Fujiwara Nagi in the garden, with an obviously stray cat in the carefully cultivated garden of the prestigious academy that pressed down on them, weighed heavily on their chests until their lungs could not fill with air properly as if they were being crushed, drowned.

"Chrome," she whispered, a little shy and this was probably a bad idea, but Chrome could not face her under a fake name, not her. Anyone but her. "It's a long story and I'm here under a different name, but, it's Chrome. Chrome Dokuro."

Tomoe Hotaru considered it, and then her eyes curved as she smiled. It was a small smile, like a rosebud or small shoots breaking out of the ground with spring, but it made Chrome's breath catch.

"Chrome," she said. "Nice to meet you. I'm Tomoe Hotaru – and you can call me Hotaru."

* * *

She reported back, of course.

"You told the daughter of the target that you're there, under not only a different name but appearance."

When the Storm Guardian put it that way, it sounded incredibly reckless.

Chrome bit her lower lip. She was an illusionist, and it was only the second-rate illusionists that deluded themselves with their own illusions, refusing to face reality. Chrome Dokuro was no second-rate illusionist.

Had it been anyone else, Chrome would have agreed with his statement.

But she didn't, because it was Tomoe Hotaru.

"Is it because she was your friend?" asked a calmer voice, one that she always associated with kindness and concern.

Before taking this mission, Chrome had told Boss about her past, the connection she had with Tomoe Hotaru and Mugen Academy. It had been a long talk, one that was interspaced with moments of quiet crying and Boss reaching out to silently comfort her by wiping away her tears, listening to her spill out the part of her life that belonged to a now-dead Fujiwara Nagi.

He knew, and he asked, and he did not judge.

_No matter what_ , he said without using words. _I trust and will support you_.

Chrome knew, and that was why she could honestly speak in defense of her decision instead of shrinking back. "I think so, but it's more than that."

It was more than Tomoe Hotaru, once upon a time, having been prepared to give Fujiwara Nagi her own organs to keep her alive. It was in the haunted hope, the desperate disbelief of her eyes as she tried to confirm who she was.

It was in that smile, the one that came like a bit of fresh green life after the chill of winter, when nothing was expected and yet, the smallest thing broke the harsh hold of the coldest season, the beginning signs of spring.

Chrome knew the name of that was 'hope', and it was that she believed in.

But those were things that could not be put into words, or at least, not by someone who wasn't as good with them. She did not have a silver tongue, or words of wit.

* * *

"It's my number," said Hotaru, pressing a piece of paper into her hands. A page from a notepad, lilac with a pattern on the edge. A butterfly with amethyst wings resting on a flower. "My father monitors my cell phone activity, so don't send anything you want seen by him."

Chrome nodded and gave her a number to a burner phone.

Keeping in mind that Tomoe Souichi was paranoid even about his daughter's activities, Chrome kept her messages simple and short. Every message she sent was short, nothing incriminating, but she spent a long time wondering what to write, and after writing it, even longer staring at the screen. When she sent it, she waited with her chest tightening with anxiety until a reply came.

The exchanges were small things. Hotaru sent her a greeting in the morning, occasional pictures of pretty desserts or flowers, and a good night around evening. Chrome replied to each to the best of her ability, and tried to reciprocate as well, face flushed.

It took a week after the revelation before Hotaru caught onto an idea as to why Chrome was in Mugen. Given her thoughtful, careful nature, it was entirely possible she had figured it out earlier and spent the rest of the time considering and planning before finally calling Chrome out.

'Meet me at three thirty,' she texted Chrome, along with an address – a teahouse with private rooms, she discovered.

Hotaru was already there, in the room she had reserved under her name, in a dark amethyst peacoat. The bottom half of her face was hidden by the light gray scarf around her neck, but Chrome saw the soft curve of her eyes give away the smile when she entered. A cursory sweep suggested no threats, both in the room and the teahouse. It was closer to the Italian style than a Japanese style, and if Chrome was to be honest, she was not used to either, but Hotaru was.

"I like their high tea," she said, and when Chrome shrugged, she nodded and placed their orders. Haru and Kyoko would have liked it, Chrome thought, at the pretty aesthetics of the menu. They loved cakes, and the sweet scent inside the building was comforting in its familiarity.

"I'm going to be frank," said Hotaru, after their orders arrived. She poured out a cup of milk tea for Chrome and then herself, and the fragrance was lovely. "I know you're in Mugen to get information about my father."

Chrome blinked in surprise as Hotaru used a pair of delicate silver tongs to add a cube of sugar into her cup and found that she wasn't – worried. Surprised, yes, because she had been subtle, and she was good at that.

But was it the bad kind of surprise, the one where her stomach seemed to drop through the real illusions that substituted her organs and her instincts screamed that she needed to fight her way out because the mission had turned southwards?

No.

Maybe it was the completely unruffled manner Hotaru had that made her feel that way. Maybe it was Hotaru herself.

"I might not know the details of everything my father does," Hotaru continued, stirring the milk tea with a spoon. The cube of sugar she had dropped in earlier had surely dissolved by now. "But I'm aware that what he's doing is by no means ethical."

No, it really wasn't. Chrome's boss was of the opinion that her master would have massacred everyone in Mugen had he been his old self, and what they did know about his 'work' was gruesome. The scandal of animal abuse in experiments, the Storm Guardian theorized, was actually only the tip of the iceberg, meant to look like that was 'all' that Tomoe Souichi was guilty of.

Mugen's cover, the glorious school of prestigious, shining stars hid something rotten in the shadows cast.

She took a cucumber sandwich. The bread had been sliced very thinly. "What are your plans?"

"To find proof." To find out what exactly he was doing, and who was connected to his work. "To fix things where it's possible." Anyone who might have been tortured in the pretense of furthering science. "To stop him." If not legally, then by the method of the Vongola's vigilantism.

Hotaru nodded, idly shredding the sandwich to pieces instead of eating it. "What if he can't be stopped, or touched?"

Chrome lowered her eyelids. The plates were very pretty – hand-painted china, edges gilded.

That wouldn't keep them from breaking, if she chose to throw them to the walls, or just – knock them off the table, at the mercy of gravity.

She could not lie to Tomoe Hotaru. Even if the truth would not be kind.

"There is no one who is untouchable."

No one. And that was why there was the resolve to protect, why their Flames lit the fire to keep fighting.

Tomoe Hotaru's eyes were dark, but even as her body language suggested hesitance, fear ingrained by years of silencing herself, there was a resolve burning in them too, an ember that could spread not yet choked out by ashes of resignation.

"No," she agreed, as if her embers had been fed kindling and a fire lit in her, a purpose found. She looked alive, in a way she never had, and Chrome forgot to breathe. She wondered, almost dizzily, if Hotaru had a similar light of resolve in her that day, in the hospital, as she raised her voice for the first time Nagi had known her. "There is no one who is untouchable."

* * *

Hotaru promised to help Chrome.

The Storm Guardian was suspicious when Chrome reported this, which was to be expected. One, it was Gokudera Hayato, and two, it was someone offering to be a spy, which was always treated with caution.

"Are you sure you haven't been compromised?" It wasn't accusatory, not quite, it was just his usually on-guard, sharp manner, but it stung in a way that took Chrome by surprise.

"Yes," she said, and only after she said it did Chrome realize it wasn't offense that took her off-guard, but defensiveness, as if his words had struck a nerve.

Maybe she _was_ compromised.

"Tomoe Souichi is her father," he said, edged with a lack of trust. There was that, too.

It was, as usual, the boss who reined in the storm.

"We are not defined by our parents, Hayato," he chided gently, and the storm subsided.

Chrome silently thanked her boss for that. She didn't want to be like her mother. She _wasn't_ like her mother.

"Do you think we can trust her?" Boss asked her. He wasn't suspicious, merely curious.

Chrome nodded, even though he couldn't see it. "Yes."

She wasn't very good with words. She had gotten better than she used to be, undoubtedly – it was easier to get better at talking if there was someone, some _ones_ who actually listened – but words still didn't come easy, and it was hard to describe who Tomoe Hotaru was to Chrome to the boss. It was hard when she couldn't put it into words and define it herself.

Hotaru didn't work in the labs, per say.

"He only has me listed as a lab assistant for the sake of convenience," she explained, almost apologetically. "I don't have access to many things."

The science division of the Vongola didn't see a problem with that.

"Nothing that can't be solved with a little hacking," Giannini had said cheerfully, and the next day Chrome received several pieces of equipment, courtesy of Spanner, Irie Shouichi and Giannini.

Hotaru had to turn down a few of them, because they were too clunky and would draw attention and she insisted there was no way she could sneak those in without raising suspicion, but the USB that could copy the files on computers was chosen for its small size. Two days later, Hotaru slipped her the USB back, and Chrome sent it back for experts with computers to deal with.

That wasn't the only thing Hotaru helped with. She helped Chrome pick out assistants who actually had access to important information, and more importantly, Tomoe Souichi. Chrome approached the former, their schedules clear in her mind, made pricks while convenient distractions went off, and completed contracts so that they might be possessed.

It was remarkably easy, and while Chrome was sure that it could have been done without Hotaru's help, it was easier with it.

That, and there was something incredibly satisfying to see Hotaru smile faintly when Chrome thanked her, pale face flushed with pleasure.

It wouldn't last, because the objective of the mission was coming close, but –

It was nice, this thing they had. Fragile as a veil fluttering in the wind, but nice.

* * *

Sometimes, in the moments when they were together alone, Hotaru looked at her softly, with a fond light that made Chrome's stomach flutter with butterflies.

"I feel like I'm living in a dream," she said one day.

Chrome waited for her to explain, or to continue, but Hotaru just smiled.

"A good dream?" she ended up asking.

Her smile deepened, like a rosebud opening up, and Chrome could swear by the Vongola Rings – by the Trinisette – that she was the most beautiful being who had ever lived.

"The best."

* * *

"Did you get a chance to look at the files?"

The Storm guardian was usually straight to the point, but this was – different from his normal abruptness. He sounded subdued.

"No." The USB, she hadn't looked at its contents, out of concern that those files would be encrypted with something. Better to have them in the hands of those that could deal with possible viruses or codes that might alert Tomoe Souichi of the spies.

There was a grumble on the other end of the line.

"If this isn't all a trap, or a set-up, then your friend has a reason for helping us," he said, tone clipped in the way it got when he was trying to keep his anger from lashing out at those that didn't deserve it.

Chrome listened, silence not betraying her growing horror, as Gokudera listed out the goals of Tomoe Souichi. Super life forms, superior beings in every way, and he had moved on from animal experiments a long time before.

His first and longest – but by no means last - human subject had been a young girl who had been in a fire. A good subject, who could provide the effects of the 'elixir' that would strengthen the body. Burns and amputations – both legs, one below and one above the knee – took much out of a body, and there had been a high probability of the girl's death.

Circumstances that might justify taking experimental procedures, had said procedures not been incredibly oriented around the concept of super life forms rather than actually caring for the girl. A regular parent might have protested to a doctor having such priorities, but in this case, the scientist _was_ the parent, and had no such scrupulous restraints.

Tomoe Hotaru had been eight when her father began conducting invasive surgeries and experimental procedures on her for the sake of his scientific discoveries. She was now twenty-three.

There were other human subjects that had died, unable to survive the procedures, but Chrome could not give herself the room to think about them.

An odd sound filled the room, and she started. "Chrome. Hey, what's wrong? Chrome!"

Something wet ran down her cheek and splashed her hand, and only then did Chrome realize the sound was coming from her – a soft but pained noise of guilt and empathy.

* * *

(Dreams, Chrome remembered, came to an end. Even the best dreams.)


	3. Tomoe Hotaru

It occurred to Chrome that she hadn’t made plans for the future. She wasn’t good at that, admittedly – she was always someone who preferred to act and live in the present. The ghosts of pasts haunted her too often – sometimes too literally, given her experiences – and the future was always undetermined, _to be_ determined, as the time travel back then had proven.

Chrome lived in the present because it was the only thing she could affect. With her Dying Will.

She had assumed that Hotaru would come with her. That was kind of the natural thing – the Vongola thing, to not leave behind an ally – and unlike some other allies of the Vongola, Hotaru hadn’t even fought them to near-death, which was incredibly reasonable and absolutely a point in her favor.

It was a rookie mistake she made, too caught up in the transient happiness that came with Hotaru, to not follow up and see the why.

Why was Hotaru helping her ruin her father? A man connected to her own life – her only remaining family? Other than the vague ‘he is unethical’, why?

And more importantly, what? What was she going to do after, when there was nothing but rubble and wreckage left of her life?

Chrome hadn’t asked, but more importantly, neither had Hotaru. Hotaru, who was smart enough to have figured out Chrome’s goals despite not being told, had not asked about what would happen to her after, about plans to make to ensure her own safety and well-being.

‘Can we talk?’ Chrome typed into her phone and sent it without any hesitation.

* * *

They met in the park, the day just cold enough that there weren’t many outside, but not so cold that they would freeze as they spoke.

Sitting side-by-side on a bench, Hotaru fidgeted with the end of her scarf.

“You saw,” she said without preamble. The direct honesty of someone who did not have time to waste with social niceties.

Chrome preferred this straightforwardness, anyways. “Not directly. But I got the gist of it.”

Only the abridged version, what she heard from the Storm Guardian.

Hotaru nodded. “I never saw them myself,” she said. “But I can guess as to what those files contain. He did keep meticulous notes on my case.”

She spoke with a detached casualness, like it wasn’t her own self she spoke of. As if she was differentiating, compartmentalizing.

Chrome didn’t know if it would be sadder for her, if Hotaru wept. That she separated her experience like this, with ease as if it was completely natural for her, broke her heart.

“I’m not his favorite case,” Hotaru added. “A bit of a failure, so. But – I’m the one he’s worked longest on, so there’s some value in that, I guess.”

A soft sound escaped her lips, but Hotaru continued like she hadn’t heard, never once turning her head the ninety degrees needed to look at Chrome. Her eyes continued to gaze forwards, and Chrome –

Chrome dared not interrupt the monologue of someone who had been silenced and alone for so long, not when she finally began to speak the words that had been forcibly buried within her.

“I don’t have any doubts over it now, but back then I really thought that maybe it was because he loved me,” Hotaru said. “That it was love, twisted as it was, and him doing everything he could to keep me alive. To try and make me – better.”

 _It wasn’t,_ was the unsaid but obvious statement.

She exhaled. “And by the time I realized that, I didn’t know what I could do.”

Phone monitored, mobility limited, Hotaru was in a cage, with no one she could trust. No one she knew how to trust. Ingrained into her was the fear that she would not be able to leave, that there would be nowhere for her to go. Fear was present for her here, in her father, in her life, but bigger was the fear of the unknown beyond. The crippling worry that everyone outside would be just as cruel.

Hotaru didn’t know how to make that blind leap of faith.

Chrome thought about how, in those odd days of time travel when they helped the boss save the world from Byakuran, she had always been tense, waiting for the other shoe to drop, unable to accept the kindness of everyone for the longest time.

Because if such a thing was natural, then it was so sad, to her, that she should have not known it.

I-Pin had broken the cracks in Chrome, made by Haru and Kyoko and Bianchi, and from then on it had been easier. Not easy, but – easier to accept, nonetheless. Nothing in life worth it was easy, but they had taught her love, taught Chrome how to not crumble.

Hotaru didn’t have a patient Haru or Kyoko knocking at the walls she’d put up in fear, did not have a Mukuro to pull her away into a new world, a boss to believe in her.

Even Fujiwara Nagi, for what she may have been worth, had died.

“Then I saw you.”

Until Chrome Dokuro came for information, a ghost from a time past.

Hotaru gestured, and there was something helpless about the action. “You were one of the few really good things in my life. Maybe ‘thing’ isn’t the right word but – one of the best parts of my life. I think you would have even if my life wasn’t so weird, but you were, even if the end was so . . .”

She choked on a sob, and had to bury most of her face into a handkerchief Chrome pulled out to offer her.

“I just,” she whispered. “I just wanted to be able to stand before you knowing I did everything I could. I didn’t want to be this – this follower of evil that just stood by while knowing terrible things were happening, not in front of you.”

It was shame Hotaru confessed, the shame of a victim who did not deserve fault or guilt on behalf of the abuser.

Chrome reached out and wrapped Hotaru in a hug, as tightly as she could.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “It’s not your fault, I wouldn’t-“

Wouldn’t judge Hotaru, because she wasn’t some angel of mercy and kindness. She was Vongola, and while the boss was changing what the Vongola meant, bringing them back to vigilantes rather than what they had become, it didn’t change the fact that they were in the grey. 

“This still feels like a fever dream,” Hotaru mumbled. “Any day I’m going to wake up on the table and it’ll be cold and hard, and I’m going to wish that I never woke up.”

Chrome tried her best to stifle the sob, but she could not stop the tears from tracing paths down her face.

“This is real,” said the illusionist. “This is all real.”

* * *

Chrome recognized this as a cry for help, even as Hotaru didn’t.

Friends, Chrome has learned, are those who stay to listen when the illusions over people, the masks they wear to pretend they are not tormented by the constant sufferings of life, are torn away to expose the ugliness underneath. Friends are those who do not flinch away, do not leave when the wounds are uncovered. Wounds that hurt so much and scream to be seen even when it also fills the bearer with deep, ugly shame.

She and Tomoe Hotaru were never friends, maybe, Chrome thought. Because they never did know each other, not fully, not truly. There was what could be noticed even on the surface, and recognizing the shadows of familiar sufferings within each other behind the veils they cast pretending they were fine, maybe, but they weren’t truly friends back then, even as they yearned for a kindred soul that could reach out.

They hadn’t been friends – yet. They understood each other without knowing, and they could have been friends, maybe, but there had just not been the chance, or the time because Fujiwara Nagi died, and Tomoe Hotaru had no kindred souls that could have been friends anymore.

And back then they had been two awkward girls who didn’t know how to reach out beyond the swamp trying to swallow them, unaware that quicksand could be escaped from, that it wasn’t a pit of endless despair, that they didn’t have to be resigned to their pain and accept it.

Back then they had been hesitant souls, unsure and too scared to try reaching out lest they be injured.

Nagi had been too scared, and so had Hotaru. But Nagi was dead now, and Chrome was stronger, no longer alone in the dark, trembling in fear that there was a monster worse than her loneliness lurking out there.

Chrome knew just how dear salvation in the form of a hand reaching out could be, and this time she could be the one to offer it.

She reached out, refusing to ignore the courage it had taken for Hotaru to jump for hope, rather than despair -

(“Come with me,” she said. “When your father falls, come with me to Italy.”)

And Hotaru took it.

(“Okay,” she whispered, not a ‘can I’ or ‘no’ or ‘I couldn’t possibly’ – and that told Chrome she wanted it, so very much, and it was as pleasing to her as it was heartbreaking.)

* * *

(“You don’t think this is creepy?”

Chrome thought about her missing eye, her lacking organs, and smiled, because they were missing parts, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t come together.

“Can I tell you something about me?”

Hotaru cried for Chrome, but her tears stopped when Chrome made it clear her worth didn’t decrease with something like missing limbs, just like Chrome’s didn’t for the want of an eye and intestines.

“You’re perfect,” Chrome said, and Hotaru flushed, and Chrome thought that the pink filling her pale face was the loveliest color she’d ever seen.)

* * *

The evidence was gathered, as were the witnesses. Through the contracts that Chrome had established with Mukuro’s aid, the ‘whistleblowers’ began to testify through different channels, and the Vongola kept them from being silenced until the sparks caught fire and grew to a blaze that could not be stopped, even by all the strings of influence Tomoe Souichi could tug at from his web.

Mugen Academy, that terrible castle of spider webs, caught fire as the spider was killed. Some cut ties – only to be yanked back into the riptide, because the Vongola did not do things halfway, and proof of their connection, their wrongdoings were also present. Others tried to fight and found themselves against a foe they could not defeat.

The infinite abyss was met with an end.

Chrome – and the Vongola – destroyed everything that Hotaru had ever known. Her life could never go back to what it had been before. Dr. Tomoe’s reputation, already teetering on the edge, would never be resuscitated, his name in the ranks of those tried as war criminals. Shortly after he was imprisoned and the public forgot about him, Chrome had no doubt that Mukuro would strike, a spider approaching the fly that had finally been caught in his web. There would be no fame for him, no remembrance. His works would be nothing.

Had Tomoe Souichi’s daughter been around, there was no doubt just how much backlash would have fallen upon her, too. The woman known as Tomoe Hotaru could never return to Japan, not unless she was disguised and using a different name, because of sheer association. She might not be guilty of anything herself, but there were quite a few powerful people who had been tied to Mugen, and not all of them had been swept up, but they certainly weren’t happy, and with Tomoe Souichi arrested and soon-to-be-dead, fingers wanted someone to point at, to burn at the stake.

By all rights, Tomoe Hotaru should have hated Chrome Dokuro for destroying her life, for effectively putting her under character assassination. For ripping apart the life she had.

And yet.

“Coco?”

Chrome shook her head. Unlike Mukuro, Chrome would not be the one to give Hotaru a new name. For one, she wasn’t as creative as her saviour, not with anagrams or names, in general. For another, it was different. They weren’t one in two, two in one. From the start Hotaru and Nagi had been kindred souls, but they had still been their own, and when Chrome met Hotaru, they had still been separate individuals.

But they could still be together. Together like they were now, coming up with a new name for Hotaru to use in the identities that the Vongola were making for her – because the Vongola took care of their own, and Kyoko and Haru were ecstatic to hear that Chrome’s friend-slash-special-person was joining them and even Mukuro sounded interested in meeting her – or together like they would be in the future, because Chrome wasn’t going to be like Nagi and slip away.

Chrome was going to hold on.

Hotaru flipped through the pages of the name book. “Jenny?”

She shook her head again. That didn’t fit her either, but more importantly, Hotaru herself didn’t seem to like it. That was more important than anything.

The book was shut with a sigh.

“I guess I’ll just go by ‘nameless’,” she said wryly. “Nameless here for evermore. What about Lenore? No,” she said before Chrome could answer, grimacing. “I’m never going to find a new name, am I?”

Chrome wasn’t very good at naming things.

“I can ask the others for suggestions,” she said softly. Haru and Kyoko would be glad to help. She just had to keep Storm man from throwing in references to weird things, or Rain man from naming Hotaru after a baseball player, or Sun man from naming her ‘Extreme’.

Maybe Mukuro would have an idea for a fitting name that Hotaru would like.

Wait, never mind.

“Or,” she hesitated, and then pushed through. “You could, still, be Tomoe Hotaru?”

Halfway across the world, it was probably unlikely that anyone would even make the connection, and eventually, the name Tomoe Souichi would be forgotten, just like other once-infamous names. He hadn’t been a fighter or a leader, ‘merely’ a scientist in a land far away during a time of peace, not war. The connection could be made vague, and maybe she would need a different last name, but a name change wasn’t necessary, per say.

Hotaru paused at that, but the silence wasn’t one of negativity, but thoughtfulness.

“Maybe,” she said.

Chrome nodded, and smiled when Hotaru tossed the book away and leaned her head on her shoulder. The weight was comforting, and she appreciated that Hotaru trusted her enough to maintain the contact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Coco is a name used in early Korean translations of Sailor Moon for Hotaru. Jenny was an English name that got much complaints and was dropped.
> 
> The original idea for this story had Hotaru die in the arms of the infiltrating guardian (since at the start it was a toss-up between Chrome, Yamamoto and Mukuro). But since this fic was to celebrate the Petrichor 1st anniversary I figured I should try to end on a happy note (is that why it took so long to finish it).
> 
> You can find me on my [Tumblr](https://huinari.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/huinari_writes) where I usually ramble and post snippets of future uploads.
> 
> Sweet Dreams~


End file.
